“They seem to be bumbling around,” he said. “But you might want to look for a back way out.”
“I need more time,” she said.
“It’s not exactly up to me.”
Hawker stared at the truck, trying to think of some way to distract the men at the front door, when a shadow caught the corner of his eye. It crossed from behind.
He ducked instinctively just as the side window shattered and the pop, pop of a suppressor-equipped handgun sounded.
No time to look back; he scrambled across the car as a third shot was fired. A long finger of padding exploded from one of the seats, marking the bullet’s track to his left.
He grabbed the door handle, pushed the passenger’s door open, and tumbled out onto the sidewalk. Pulling his gun as he hit the cement, he twisted and fired blindly back into the car and all around it.
Inside the townhome, Danielle heard the shots. She knew the sound of Hawker’s .45.
She needed to go, but she felt the answer was close. She flipped through the pages of the notebook, skipping toward the end until she found a page that was only half-full. The last entry was dated one month prior.
She rang her finger down the list.
Series 947—results inconclusive, subject terminated.
Series 948—results inconclusive, subject terminated.
Series 949—results determinable, vitality affected, subject did not survive.
Another gunshot rang out. Danielle glanced that way and then back at the notes.
Series 950—results inconclusive, subject terminated.
Series 951—outcome unequivocal, subject telomeres shortened, activity level unaffected, life span reduced by 51 %.
That was the last entry.
Danielle stared at the words as if in a trance. Telomeres shortened … life span reduced.
Telomeres were molecular chains at the end of the DNA strand. They were known to be connected with cellular reproduction, cellular life span, and even human life span.
What the hell were these people messing around with?
Another shot boomed outside the door and Danielle knew she’d run out of time.
She ripped the page from the notebook and turned toward the back of the home. Then, realizing the flash drive was still attached to the computer, she ran to it.
A loud crashing noise told her the front door had been breached. She yanked the drive free, turned, and raced to the back of the house.
Hawker lay pressed against the ground, near the rear wheel of the vehicle. The gunman who’d missed him was on the other side of the car, crouched down near the front of the vehicle, no more than ten feet away.
Hawker stared under the car, watching for the man’s feet. Then he raised his gun and fired through the car. Two shots, glass shattering everywhere, but the bastard didn’t flinch.
The problems as Hawker saw them were threefold. First, he was outnumbered and sooner or later they would come at him from two directions. Second, Danielle was stuck in the building, unless she’d busted out the back as he hoped. Third, the man trying to kill him was up front, protected by the engine block, while Hawker crouched a mere fourteen inches from the half-filled gas tank.
He glanced at the big Isuzu: no one there. He guessed they’d gone inside.
A bullet hit the wall behind him. High and wide.
Time to move. Hawker scrambled backward, scooting on his backside, aiming the gun at the rear of the Peugeot. He fired repeatedly. One shot after another.
Finally there was an explosion. Not the conflagration seen in Hollywood movies, but a bang that blew the trunk off and shattered the rear window. In an instant the flames were licking around the car.
The gunman on the other side was thrown back. Looking under the car, Hawker saw the man’s feet as he stood and ran.
Hawker fired, low and flat, skipping the bullets under the car and off the pavement. With his third shot, the man’s ankle exploded and he tumbled down face-first into the street, screaming in agony.
Inside, Danielle had made it through the kitchen to a frosted glass door with a dead bolt. White light poured in through it and freedom beckoned.
She heard footsteps behind her, men shouting to each other. She hastily checked the door for red wires. Finding none, she turned the lock, threw the door open, and raced outside into the rear yard.
Halfway across a man tackled her and pinned her to the ground. She tried to throw him off, but he held a knife beside her face and she went still.
He snatched the papers from her hand, along with the Beretta 9 mm that sat uselessly in a shoulder holster.
“Get up!” the man shouted.
As his weight came off her, she complied. Two other men were with him.
“Take her to the boat,” one of them said. The two men dragged her off as the third made his way inside.
Hawker saw the man in the street writhing in pain. He thought of racing past him to the house, but the other thugs had just gone in. And at any rate, if Danielle was smart, she’d gone out the back.
He turned, examining the houses along the street. Spotting an alleyway between two of the old homes, he ran for it.
Sliding through the narrow chasm, he came out behind the row of houses.
Across the backyards he saw Danielle with two men marching her toward the river. He stepped forward and raised his weapon.
A thundering explosion knocked him sideways.
A flash of heat singed his face. Shrapnel of wood, plaster, and glass blasted him from the side.
He hit the ground hard, rolled over in case he was on fire, and then got to his hands and knees. His head was foggy, his ears ringing. He had no idea what had happened.
As dark smoke billowed around him, he glanced over his shoulder. The townhome had been obliterated from within. Three walls blown out, the roof collapsing, the building was nothing more than a shell now. Flames rose up from inside, chasing the dark smoke as the last wall of brick bulged and collapsed in a sliding pile.
Out in the yard, Danielle and the two men were down. She seemed to have fared better than they had, as if their bodies behind her had acted as a shield.
Hawker climbed to his feet and ran to her, arriving just as she pushed one of the men off. The guy had to be dead, a jagged length of pipe sticking through him.
The other assailant rolled groggily. Hawker dropped down beside him, pulling an old revolver from his hand and tossing it away. The man didn’t resist but just stared, glassy-eyed.
“And you think I like to break things,” he said, helping Danielle up.
She found her Beretta and put it back in her holster.
“What the hell happened?” Hawker asked.
Danielle looked around, appearing disoriented. “Guess somebody checked out the wrong book.”
Ash rained down around them now. Fragments of burning paper falling from the heavens left trails of glowing cinders and smoke as whatever knowledge had been hidden in that building burned itself to dust.
Danielle rubbed her temple, looking down at the dead man.
“Could have been you,” Hawker said.
She nodded, and then her mind seemed to clear. She turned toward the river.
“They were taking me to a boat.”
Hawker looked that way as Danielle began to walk. The lawn led to a fence with gate, beyond which lay a road and an imposing wall made of stone. A flight of steps cut into the wall had to lead to the Seine.
The sound of a motorboat starting ripped through the air. And Hawker watched as Danielle took off running.
CHAPTER 10